Indiana Jones and the Secret of the Penan
by The Mutant Velociraptor
Summary: After a strange plane crash, Indy finds himself lost in the jungles of Bornea. When he stumbles onto a village, he thinks he's in luck, but then, after his collegue is brutally murdered, he finds himself stuck in something he'd rather not be involved in..


** Indiana Jones and the Secret of the Penan**

** --**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Indiana Jones, or Borneo, or the Penan - who are real, by the way - or- you get the picture. I do, however, own James Malcolm, if briefly, and whatever secret this particular tribe of Penan has. Which isn't much, if you think about it, but oh well.

**A/N:** Yay! Yet another Indeh fic from your least favourite weirdo, NC. [: Hehe. At least this one has a name! Anyway, I whipped this up one evening while I was looking for various references to IJ in my encylopedia (I found one, too) and other various books when I decided that I needed another Indeh RP start, so I grabbed my 'People of the Rainforest' book and - voila. Here you go. I'm considering expanding it into a story, if I get a good response, and quite probably scrapping the other one unless I come up with a flash of inspiration or something like that. Have fun?

--  


** Borneo, 1932**

As customary in the rainforest, it was hot, humid, and wet. Small flowers dotted the ground, and all sorts of strange insects crawled along the floor, shying away from the few rays of light managed to filter through the dense canopy of leaves. It was these rays which lit up the solitary figure making its way through the dense foliage crowding the jungles of Borneo - and, indeed, the mosquitos buzzing hungrily around it.

Upon his head, whose hair was a light brown, an old felt fedora was placed haphazardly, looking as through it migh fall off at any minute; though the man looked as if he didn't have enough energy to push it back in place. At his hip, almost covered by the battered leather jacket he wore, was a bullwhip. However, if one were to look at him closer, one would see the large gash on the side of his head, blooding his already matted hair. His body was also adorned with scratches and cuts, and he was limping, too. Evidently he had been in a fight, or accident, and come off worse. 

It was the latter.

The figure vaguely remembered his crash-landing which, according to what he remembered of the area, had been somewhere near Sibu, one of the Bornean cities. He was now trekking - or attempting to trek - towards Sibu, feverishly wondering how long it would be before he collapsed.

However, there was one glimmer of hope: he knew the people of the area were nomads, but last time he had been here there had been a village. It might be deserted now, but with some luck it would be a place to rest for a few days, and with even more luck there would be people there; the man didn't know if the Borneans moved around randomly, or had fixed places to go, and it had been around this time of the year he had been there last. At any rate, he hoped that if there were any inhabitants, they would be friendly, and have some sort of way he could use to contact help. It was this thought alone that kept him going, bringing the man known worldwide as Indiana Jones unwittingly closer to something he would rather not be involved in.

-

Two days later, he awoke groggily inside a small, thatched hut. He was on a rather hard bed, next to which a small table with a bowl of water and a wad of bandages resided. As he made a feeble attempt to work out what had happened, a short, dark woman entered the hut, and immediately rushed out again upon seeing Indiana awake. Before he had time to register this, however, she returned, this time accompanied by a tall, greying man with a distinct English accent.

"Why, doctor Jones!" he exclaimed, taking a step towards the archaeologist. "How wonderful to see you're awake."  
"Doctor.. Malcolm?" asked Indiana, propping himself up on an elbow to allow himself a better look at the older man.

"So you remember me!" said Malcolm, evidently pleased. "And do call me James, 'Doctor Malcolm' makes me feel old. I say, you're looking better. You were in quite a state when Shya found you. I'm not quite sure you would have survived much longer if--"

"Shya?" asked Indiana, apparently too confused to keep up with the doctor.

"The hunter who fund you. I could call him over, if you liked, though I daresay he won't understand a word you say to him; he doesn't speak English. None of them do, except a few of the younger ones, and old Pachka - why, she's older than me! - but none of them speak it very well at all so..."  
All this was lost on Indiana, however, as he was busy concentrating on other things. Obviously, he had passed out somewhere near the village, and this Shya person had found him and brought him back. But what was Doctor Malcolm doing here? He was one of the leading people in archaeology. For what possible reason could he be in the middle of the jungle? Indiana decided he better find out.

"Doct-- James," he asked, interrupting the old man in mid-speech, "why are you here?"

Malcolm made a surprising change from lighthearted to serious, glancing around to make sure nobody was listening. "Indy, the villagers, these Penan, they've got secrets. Dangerous ones," he hissed, leaning closer to Indiana. "They're hiding things, and I intend to find out what."

"What sort of things?" asked Indiana, even more confused now than ever.

"Well--"  
Suddenly, Malcolm began to convulse, his eyes rolling to the back of his head. His hands were jerking violently, uncontrollably, and it seemed as though he was trying to say something. Finally, with one last spasm, the old man fell onto Indiana's bed. Indiana stared in horror at the lifeless body with growing nausea. Out of the corner of his eye, Indiana spotted the culprit of Malcolm's horrific death; a small poison dart, embedded in the base of his neck. And when he looked over to the open doorway, he noticed an equally small, hollow blowpipe, the kind Penan used with poison darts... the kind used to kill.


End file.
